His eyes said so
by cliche catastrophe
Summary: I feel my lips getting dry and I run my tongue over them as he hugs himself to me, leaning down so his chin is on my shoulder. I close my eyes and the wall evaporates. I cave. I turn. He’s gone and she’s back. Rated T for language. Seddie: Three-shot.
1. Development

I watch his eyes sometimes. Half the time I have no clue I'm even doing it, I execute an action and when I have nothing else to do, I watch. It's hard to describe them without sounding like I'm falling in love with him, because I'm not. Maybe, just maybe, I find his cornea's fun to stare at for no screwy reason. They're brown, quite an intense brown in fact. Not the kind of eyes you get lost in, in one fleeting glance but not the kind of eyes you can avoid the perplexity of. To a casual watcher, they're very plain and boring. Exactly what I thought the first time I'd seen them looking back into mine. But a while back, I can't remember the specific date because I don't own a calendar but if I did, I would have wrote it down because that's the day that he started screwing with my head.

I don't think he knew it at the time. A heated fight where things were said that couldn't be taken back, or forgotten. An irate gaze from across the room that surprisingly, was where his eyes unexpectedly narrowed and caught the light. Yellow. Just a speck of it, I swore I saw it. I investigated, fought with him more for a closer proximity and I'd seen it again. I was hooked. Brown was my favourite color, how could you not love brown? It was a reminder of something as close to normal as I could get; gravy. A friend of mine that didn't coil my brain when I got too close.

Like I said, I don't think he knew he was messing with me by just staring back then. But he sure as hell knows it now. Averting his eyes whenever we're within the same four walls so that those walls feel as if they're closing in on me. Just one look. It was like a drug. But why was it like a drug? I'd rather take drugs than be addicted to those stupid brown orbs. I think.

* * *

I look at his lips too as he talks to me. He knows I do and he enjoys a turn of tables, him torturing me. I don't. Enjoy it, that is. It's such a warped reaction, feeling like you're on top of the world and feeling as if the world is on top of you all in one moment. Like a gory horror movie; you're scared to the point of shitting yourself, but you just can't stop watching. And watching, and watching. I hate pink, a lot. If you knew me, you'd know that. He knows that, which is why at first he seemed so damn confused, his entrancing eyes changing with a look of innocence. But he wasn't innocent, he knew what he was doing and it was reckless. I think he may have a death wish. I hope not. His lips wouldn't look nice blue. Or maybe they would.

When you're talking to a person, and you're staring at their lips and they notice, what's the first thought that would come to your mind, the first thought that would come to his mind. She wants to kiss me, that's what. He laughs, heck I would laugh. I'd be in hysteria, rolling around on the floor and pointing. I wish for the day when he looks. Just by accident, he looks at my lips when I'm talking. He knows that will be day when he makes the biggest mistake of his life. Sometimes mistakes are good. Some are bad. Very bad. But which one? I made a mistake. I've made the mistake of fucking torturing myself day in, day out. And I think that was a pretty good mistake. I think. I'm so indecisive, it hurts. Physically and emotionally.

* * *

How did I get so caught up in watching the way he moves? He used to walk robotically, like he himself was some sort of geek computer. But now, now he had some dignity. His arms were always by his sides, or a hand in a fist, meeting another fist in the hallway. Since when did he become popular? Damn, I am losing my mind. No, in reality it's already gone. It's lost. Along with the majority of my other internal organs, or so it feels. His arms are quite toned. I can get a better view now he's stopped wearing those sweatshirts under his polo shirt. These days, it's a white or black polo, or a white or black t-shirt. Quite plain. But that's what you think first, whatever it is you see. Then you get so damn caught up and it messes with you, with your sanity. Damn his father for being Spanish and giving him the tanned quality, the dark hair. The perfect white teeth behind that perfect pale pink pair of lips. Thanks to his mum, for – wait, he doesn't look like his mum. Not one bit. Where is it? He doesn't have crazy eyes or a wicked smile.

When he walks past me in the hallway, he sometimes sends a wink my way as he moves past the sea of students. I feel as if I'm melting, but not in a fuzzy, fluffy, girly way. I feel like my flesh is literally falling from my bones, my eyelashes dropping from my eyes and I feel hot then cold, feverishly so. I'm sure the janitor would love cleaning a big puddle of melted Sam off of the vinyl floor. There'd be no trace left of how it was him who was at fault for my death, it's his fault for winking instead of blinking.

* * *

I love how he tortures me. I love it, but I hate it too because he likes watching me suffer but doesn't let me have what it is I want. What do I want? Him, I think. It's vacillating; I just can't seem to decide. I think he's decided. I can see it in those interesting eyes. It's torture that his decision didn't escape through those tantalizing lips. When we're alone, when the third party leaves the room for just five minutes, telling us not to kill each other he torments me. The third party has no idea how true her words could be. When she comes back, I could be a pile of melted goo on her new wooden floor. She leaves, and I'm just standing their, practising not caving. I stare at a crack in the wall in front of me, but I see him and he knows I see him as he stands from where he's sitting and walks over. I continue to stare at a wall as his hands find their place on my hips. I tense, but I don't cave. I'm holding my breath, and I can't let it go. I feel my lips getting dry and I run my tongue over them as he hugs himself to me, leaning down so his chin is on my shoulder. I close my eyes and the wall evaporates. I cave. I turn. He's gone and she's back.

Torture. I was putting him in a headlock was a habitual excuse. His Randy Jackson cologne stays with me. It's definitely tight, dawg.

* * *

Backlash. The tables have a chance to turn back when he gets a job, a secret job. He says he's working in the local café as a waiter, but I've been there every single day and haven't seen him once. The desire to torture him was indescribably desperate. A chance. Barbeque sauce on my new bra, so I take a trip to Build-A-Bra on my own. He's helping a middle aged woman thread a wire under a flowery bra cup. He looks so odd with a red cap on. It's backwards though, with a tufts of chocolate hair escaping through the front and he has a worker ID thread through a white shoe lace hanging around his neck. He sees me and his chin is on the floor. My lips are parted too, and before I know it I'm being pushed into a changing room, covered in fluff and pink stickers. I look in the mirror at his hand that's still around my wrist. He drops my arm and leans his back against the wall, horror in his eyes. He says nothing but searches my eyes. That's a point to me. 1 to me, an uncountable amount to him. He opens his mouth to say something, I know because I'm watching his lips again but he snaps them shut.

He wants me to keep quiet. So I tell him that I will because his eyes said that I should, and I lose the chance to turn back the tables. He thanks me with a hug, and I take in the scent of girly perfume on his neck. It smells delicious and I'm glad he's started working here because his mum will think he's been with girls, and any chance to make Mrs B angry was a chance at making my day that much more bearable with her son around so often. I buy a white bra with red strawberries on it. It's not something I'd usually buy, but maybe he thinks it's cool.

_What's up? Well, angst is kind of new to me. I tried to make it a little less 'I want to choke on my own bile if it makes him happy' kind of angst/romance but hey, I hope you like it. This will be a three-shot. I've written this, the whole second chapter and some of the third. Once I'm happy with the amount of reviews I get, I'll update. But until then, my friends, lates bates. Oh yeah, and I hope you're not confused by the fact the story is made up of small scenes. And yes, it is in Sam's point of view._


	2. Problems

He finally earns enough to buy a decrepit car. He passes his test months later. I'm sitting in my room, watching re-runs of MASH when I hear a car horn outside. It's dark, and bitterly cold outside when I unlock and open the door. I grab a scarf but can't find my coat as I shut the door behind me and open the door which looks as if it would fall off in my hand. His car smells like cigarette smoke, but only because it's second hand and though the smell burns my nose, the night is young and I couldn't let the stagnant air ruin this moment. He opens a window anyway and apologises the second I'm spluttering a throaty cough. I thank him. He smiles with his eyes, looks straight into mine. Two points. I watch the look of concentration his face, his eyes fixated and a tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek as he turns the key in the ignition.

We're turning into a car park and he's parking the car in an empty space. Though the whole place is nearly empty because of how late it is. We get out and I shiver, my skin has goose bumps but I'm not sure when they came and what caused them. He opens the boot and reaches for his black fleece. He hands it to me before locking the car doors. I put it on and it's velvety on the inside. I'm grinning as we eat at President Pancakes, wolfing down breakfast for dinner, or supper in this case.

It becomes routine. Every other night or so, he's outside my house at dusk.

* * *

I begin to wonder why he rarely torments me anymore. Torture becomes seldom. When Carly's out the room, he merely smirks or smiles in my direction. Though there are the times, when he's had a bad day and the only way to cheer himself is to see somebody else suffer. Today was that day. I was that sufferer. Coming up in the main elevator to the third party's house was normal. It was another routine. Normal. Seems like one of the only normal things, something that was decipherable and optional. I had a choice. It didn't screw with my mind. As I was walking towards her door, wondering about infrequent torture, my thoughts must of emit some sort of signal through the opposite apartment and into his bedroom, because that was the only explanation as to why he creaked open his door and whispered my name.

* * *

Time passed and I was on his couch, third party forgotten and watching more television. I wasn't really watching, I was more concentrated on not dying and/or passing out in his house. I could tell he'd had a bad day. There were bags under his eyes and he looked drained. He works too much, I tell him and he responds with a soft smile. I tell him he should take a break, and he nods his head but doesn't answer. I want to know what's wrong with him but his eyes tell me not to ask so I keep my mouth shut. The theme song for Friends comes on and he puts his arm around my shoulders. I look up at him and I'm wondering where his mum is. It's Saturday. She can't be working. But I've looked at his eyes and now I can't stop staring. I just accomplished something near to impossible. He did it. He looked at my lips. But then he looked away, dethatching his arm from me. I know why. The door handle is pushed down and as his front door opens, I'm thinking it's his mum so I scoot away from him and pretend to be asleep. I'll let him come up with something, I'm not suffering on this one. Not on his mother's watch.

I feel the glare burning into my hair singeing it almost; I'm surprised to hear _her_ voice. She's irritated at Freddie. It's not his mum, though. She's come across the hall, wondering why we weren't at her house. She tells him she feels like we're not her friends anymore. I hear Freddie telling her lies: that I was feeling faint and so he brought me into his house to rest. She said okay, but I could hear uncertainty in her voice. I gulped as Freddie stood to his feet. I couldn't see what was going on. What was going on? Silence. That wasn't good. I rolled over quietly and peeked. Had she just kissed him? She had. She had. He gave her a half smile and told her there was nothing going on between him and me. I felt tears. I buried my head in the fabric of his blue couch.

Is he enjoying my suffering now? I stood and walked out.

* * *

I skipped school. It was normal for me, they guessed. Carly texted me telling me that she thought I knew. She said she told me in the hallway at school, put words into my mouth; saying that I'd told her I was cool with it. I don't remember. I must have been watching him because she wouldn't lie to me. That's what best friends are for, right? Being honest and also torturing you, yeah. It'd been a week since I'd seen him and I'd convinced myself that people who love you, torture you. Then maybe I can torture him with a hard, cold shoulder. See just how much he likes it.

* * *

Monday, I was back. I didn't watch his eyes, or watch his lips, not even the way he walked past me in the corridor. Probably because this time, he didn't walk past. He stopped, and stood in front of me. I kept a gaze focused on another passing senior. He followed my gaze. I didn't look at his reaction, just caught his head moving out of the corner of my eye. The senior smiled at me. I gave a wave to him. He probably thought I was hitting on him. Truth is, I had no idea who he was. Freddie began saying things, words – just words. I couldn't hear them. In the middle of an explanation, I walked away from him and into the ladies room. I gave a glare to the girls still their and they scoffed and left me alone, sitting on the counter next to the sinks. I brought legs up and rested them on the porcelain bowls, my head to the side as I looked in the mirror. My own eyes seemed darker. Darker than his were on a bad day. I wanted to look at him but I couldn't.

A sigh. A groan. A agonising walk to the door. I saw him, with her. How was she my best friend when she took him before I could? It's not her fault, it's his. It's his. I closed the space in the halls between them and me. I didn't look him in the eye. I gave her a wave, she smiled sympathetically at me. I frowned. This felt like a nightmare. Why couldn't it be a nightmare?

* * *

I saw him again. I was at the mall, at my favourite café, sat with that senior guy who'd smile at me. I didn't even know his second name, but he was pretty handsome. His eyes were nice too, not as nice as his but nice all the same. They were green, reminded me of vegetables, which was the down side. I saw him coming out of work, his cap on the right way, casting a shadow over his eyes. He was wearing black jeans and a red polo shirt with his name on the back and the name of the store on the front. Senior guy (his name is not important) was telling me something as I looked at Freddie untangling himself from his work ID. He looked depressed, as if someone had just killed his girlfriend. His girlfriend. The word made me feel queasy. Senior put his hand over mine. I gave him back my attention with a fleeting smile. He pulled his beanie over his ears more so and took his coat from the back of his chair. We were leaving; I'd have to pass those brown eyes, those pale pink lips. Another quiet groan.

Senior laced his fingers with mine. I didn't think I liked it, but my hands were cold and his were warm. I played with the zipper of my jacket as we walked out of the café, nearing the pink store. I looked at him. I looked. Benson. He was looking straight back at me. Into my eyes. Three points, but I didn't care. He smiled and waved at me, then looked at Senior's hand in mine and frowned. I looked away. We reached the exit. Freddie passed us, walking the same way I was going, but he was already down the road. Senior's house was the other way. He took my other hand and gave me a shy smile. I dethatched our hands and kissed his lips. They tasted like cappuccino and I pulled away and walked away quickly, dangerously catching up with Freddie. I heard Senior say goodbye but I quickened my pace. Freddie stopped. I sighed. We walked to Kennedy Square without a word. He entered Bushwell after another look at my eyes and I ran all the way back to my house. Four points. What did I do to deserve this?

* * *

_Please type ORANGE FARTS into the review section if you liked this chapter and you want the third and final chapter to come. I don't know why Orange Farts, but it'll sure as hell confused the moderators, hey? Hey there. How's your day been so far. It's three o'clock here. I'm sitting in my room on the laptop and I can here my dad watching Spongebob Squarepants downstairs. And ah, H&M have bought a Jimmy Choo collection in. Town is bloody full. Anyway, have a nice day. Oh and enjoy watching iFind Lewbert's Lost Love tonight. I can't watch it until tomorrow as I'm a British Citizen, and I have to watch it on MegaVideo. Lates bates._


	3. Damage Control

Did the big man in the sky have it out for me? Yes. No doubts. A short walk to third party's apartment. Third party's brother. He waved once as he escaped out of the door, with a sad smile. He looked like he knew something. Was my life a fat load of crap, based only on the torment I received from the ignorance of my mother, the overshadowing beauty of my best friend and the torture from her boyfriend? Yes – I was wrong. He really has no dignity whatsoever. His lips are on my temple. This was punishment. He was still torturing me. I gave up ignoring him after three days, I'd spilt coke on my strawberry bra on purpose, just to see him again. He was right – I had no self control. What was wrong with me? We were in his girlfriend's living room and he still couldn't help seducing me. He'd had a fight with Duke, bad day, bad day, bad day, seduction, torture.

His girlfriend and her brother had only been gone for five minutes and his hands were on my hips. The first time in three years since his lips have been in contact with me. Not as good as lip to lip, but definitely good. No, wait – bad. Sigh. I sucked in a breath and turned. I ask him why he's doing this. He asks me what I mean and I do something stupid, but it feels good. I raise my fist and wince as I hear a crack, as my knuckles come into contact with his jaw. My eyes are closed. I open them. He's facing away from me, a fist print. He looks back at me. He looks hurt. He touches his face. It's too good to stop now. I punch again. This time it's his eye. I don't look this time around, I run. I run down the hall, the wrong way. I'm at a dead end. I crumple to the floor. I'm crying. I look up.

He's there. I blemished his beautiful face with a yellowing eye and a red mark on his jaw and he's still there. I cry more. I say sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm sorry. He says it's okay, and that he's sorry too. He walks away. I leave. I'm wondering why I haven't thrown myself off a building yet. But the memory of him saying sorry kept me sane, for the night anyway.

* * *

I saw him again, but this time he wasn't working, we weren't at his girlfriend's house, or his house or my house. It wasn't the usual scene. It was raining quite hard and I was at the edge of the wood behind my house. I had a bag of cheese puffs in one hand as I walked under the canopy of the trees, my hair stuck to my face and the cheese puffs tasted like rain water on my tongue but it felt quite nice. I knew my way around and I was nearly half way through my adventure when I heard a rustling sound. I saw the back of a brown haired head poke out from low behind a tree trunk before disappearing behind it again. I heard sniffling. I rounded the trunk curiously, hoping it wasn't some random paedophile. Yikes. My heart ached slightly in my chest but I ignored it as a pair of brown eyes looked up at me though wet, heavy lashes.

He stared up at me then began wiping his eyes furiously with the backs of his sleeves. I gulped and dropped down next to him. He told me that he hadn't been crying, and that it was just the rain. I was going to disagree but his eyes told me not to so I snapped my mouth shut after a contemplating millisecond. I wanted so badly to ask. Why was he crying. I looked at his face closer and chewed down on my lip. My eyes widened. Regret. His right eye was surrounded by a black shadow, yellows and purples circling his eyelids. Guilt. I looked away, I looked down at my fist. After a moment of basking in the beauty of the rain and of the boy sitting beside me, he spoke. He said his life was fucked up. I said I understood. He asked me how and I told him he has no idea. I felt his hand on top of mind and a pulled away as if his hand was on fire.

No matter how much I want this, I couldn't do it to her. I tasted blood on my lip and I quickly pressed them together to halt the bleeding. I leant my head against the rough bark, closing my eyes. He rolled his head to the side to look at me. I knew because I felt the stare burning the side of my head. He asked me whether I hated him. My eyes flew open and I shook my head vigorously. He smiled in relief and turned away. Silence screams truth. Oh yeah, and confessional speeches. I ask him whether he knows. I think he gets what I mean. Does he know that I want him? His lip twitched at the edge before looking me straight in the eyes. I think that's point five. He gave me a curt nod and looked at the sky, sticking out his tongue and catching the rain. I told him people piss in the sea and he's basically drinking piss. He told me sarcastically that I was lovely. It hurt even though he was joking.

My heart was thumping. He shuffled closer to me and tightly took my hand in his. The burning from the salty tears escaping down my cold face mixed with the piss from the clouds morphed my lips into a colossal frown. I was frozen in place but I felt less damaged. I turned my head to look at him. We were so close that my breathing was erratic. He leant towards me and hesitated at my lips. I flinched away from him, staring forward. I'm not sure how many points that near miss delivered to me.

I couldn't take this.

* * *

He showed up at my door later that Sunday night. I saw him waiting there outside my window. Mum shouted from the bathroom for me to answer. With my cheek pressed up against the window, my eyes cast on him I replied to her that I would. But I couldn't move. He took a seat on my doorstep. I heaved a sigh, pulling on my purple dressing gown and making my way down the stairs. I traipsed into the kitchen, pouring myself some of mum's vodka. I downed it in a gulp before making my way into the hall. I could make out his shape through the tinted glass. I pushed down the handle. I lied and told him that he'd woken me up. He didn't answer. I leant against the brick wall. I felt dizzy. He looked up at me with a determined gaze. I've lost count in my head. I might be catching up. My eyes widened as he told me he's broken up with her.

He stood to his feet. I took his hand and opened my front door, letting him in. I lead him through to the living room. I hated the flowery green wall paper in there but his favourite colour was green so maybe he silently appreciated it. We sat down. Me, cross legged, him normal. He let his head fall into his hands. He asked himself what he'd done. It was rhetorical but I answered anyway. You've ruined lives. He gave me a quick and sarcasm filled thank you.

I asked him whether he liked cupcakes. He asked me what person didn't like cupcakes. Cupcake haters, I'd replied. He told me I had a point. I got away. I was in the kitchen. I opened my junk food cupboard and took out my favourite cupcakes from Cupcake Jake's. I handed him one. Silence again. I asked him why he was here. He thanked me for the cupcake and slumped into the couch, messing his hair up with his other hands stressfully. I wanted to put it back into place. I reached over. Stupid girl. He looked at me fleetingly, then gazed at my elevated hand. I went to drop it into my lap but he took hold of it. If he knew. He asked me whether I knew. If he wanted me? My breath got caught in my throat and I felt my tear ducts explode. A salty tear rolled down my cheek. I shook my head. He put down his cupcake.

He told me he did. I thought my heart had just crawled up into my throat, flew out of my mouth and a fat baby shot me in the chest with an arrow. I let out a throaty gulp. He told me to look at him so I did. He told me to move closer and I did. He rested his hands on my back and I rotated to face him. I kissed him. Right there. I can't believe I did. I just leant in right there, pressed his moist pink lips to mine and it felt so euphoric and fantastic and any other positive adjective on the face of the earth. He was gripping my face with his hands and he desperately kissed me as a tear rolled down his cheek. I wiped it away with my thumb. I cannot be blamed. I'm not at fault for that kiss. He isn't either. It was those damn chocolate irises. His eyes said so.

He grabbed my face again. He can be such a shit stirrer. Can you blame him? I'm still not sure. I think I blame his eyes.

* * *

_What do you call a donkey with three legs? Glue. Review saying "BANANA GRAVY" if you liked this story. Check out my other Sam/Freddie stories and one-shots. Thank you, my loves._


End file.
